by Lily Graison
His accent was thick and his voice deep. Morgan wondered how the man knew he was a town marshal. His coat covered his badge. The man was still smiling but something in his eyes let Morgan know he was anything but happy about seeing him. Laying the reins loose in his hand, Morgan nodded to him. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t waste time out here in the west do ya?” He laughed and fidgeted on his seat. “Fletcher Montgomery, at your service.”
His mocking tone set Morgan’s teeth on edge. “I’ve heard tale you left the hotel back in Willow Creek without paying your bill.”
The man lifted one shoulder as if it didn’t matter. “I was in a bit of a hurry, you see. I’ll make it right before too much time has passed.”
Morgan stared at him, trying to figure out the best way to go about all this. His first instinct was to just shoot the man and be done with it but the small niggling doubt that he may be wrong about him wouldn’t let him. What if this man really wasn’t looking for Abigail? He’d have shot a man for no more than skipping out on a hotel bill. It wouldn’t look good if he were that impulsive.
The sun was high in the sky and its light was casting a halo around the man. Morgan knew time was wasting. Abigail would take advantage of the light if she was smart and he knew she was. Hiding a secret this long proved it. Inhaling deeply, Morgan nudged the horse, edging it closer to where the man sat waiting.
Fletcher nodded his head toward him and said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your name, Sir.”
Morgan wanted to refuse to answer but didn’t. “Morgan Avery, Marshal of Willow Creek.” He also cut to the chase and asked the man bluntly about his intentions for his wife. “What business do you have with Abigail?”
Fletcher looked surprised, his brow lifting. “She’s going by Abigail now, is she?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Gone all proper and picked up a ladies name. Something she’s never been and never will be.” He repositioned his hat again and glanced toward the guns at Morgan’s hip. “She’s not worth the trouble, Marshal. I found her in a back alley up near New York when she was too young to look after herself. I tried to make something of her but once a gutter rat, always a gutter rat. She’s not much use for anything other than to look pretty and suck a man’s cock.” He grinned. “I suppose you’ve already found that out, haven’t you?”
Morgan’s dislike for the man multiplied after hearing him speak of Abigail in such a way. She wasn’t perfect, no one was, but she deserved respect all the same. To hear this man talk, she wasn’t good for anything other than being some mans whore. Was that all she had been to this man? If he could talk of her the way he was, he assumed she meant nothing to him. Shooting him would satisfy his need to defend her honor. Reaching toward his side, he laid his hand on the butt of his gun. His fingers twitched to pull it from his holster but he knew he had no right. Not really. He couldn’t shoot a man for no other reason than he’d offended him. But he could lock his sorry hide up. He’d skipped out on his hotel bill. That was reason enough. He tightened his hand around the hilt of his gun. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Montgomery.”
Fletcher threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing across the prairie. “She must have been especially good in your bed, Marshal, for you to arrest me. Tell me… does she still do that thing with her tongue…”
Morgan pulled the gun, raised it and leveled the barrel with the man’s head. “Shut your mouth and get off the horse. Slowly.”
The mirth on the man’s face vanished then. He stiffened, his lips compressed into a thin white line. He stared at the gun before rolling his eyes up to look at Morgan’s face. “You’re making a dangerous mistake, friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Morgan said. “Now get off the horse or I’ll shoot you off of it.”
Fletcher did nothing for long minutes, then shrugged his shoulder, smiled and proceeded to climb down. Morgan did the same, keeping his eye on the man. Before his feet hit the ground, Morgan realized his mistake. He should have waited. Waited until the man was on both feet before moving. Fletcher pulled a gun from his back, aimed and pulled the trigger before Morgan could move. The impact flung him backwards to land at his horses’ feet. Pain shot through his chest, his vision blurred, and the man’s laughter was a dull ringing in his ears. Blinking into the sun, a shadow fell across his face. It was Fletcher, smiling as he loomed over him.
“I’ll be sure to let Abby know how offended you were with my thinking her a whore. She never liked the title much regardless of all the baubles I bought her. She’ll never be good for anything but a whore, Marshal, and when I find her, she’ll be a dead whore. Want me to bring her back to you? You can both rot in the same grave.”
The pain in Morgan’s shoulder was nothing compared to what it was after Fletcher kicked him, his ribs cracking from the impact. He gasped for air as he was kicked in the side of the head, his vision blurring until he saw nothing but fading shapes. Fletcher’s voice, him telling Morgan to, “have a nice death,” was the last thing he heard before he blacked out.
* * * *
A noise startled her and Abigail grabbed for the rifle by her feet. She blinked, the sun blinding her, and tried to see what it was she’d heard. She saw nothing but the horse.
She’d been jumpy all morning. Waking to find a dense fog rolling over the valley had left her feeling more alone than she’d liked. Add in the uncomfortable realization that Fletcher could be anywhere by now, even out there in that fog, watching her, and she’d worked herself into a nervous mass of emotions.
Lying the gun back down, she scrubbed at her face. She’d slept sitting up, leaned back against a tree, and had woken to find her bottom wet. The dew had soaked through the denim of her trousers. The wind had been cool that morning and caused shivers to race laps up and down her spine. Luckily the sun had crested the mountain and warmed her, and her wet denim, in record time. Stopping for a break mid-day had been the last thing on her mind but her back hurt and her queasy stomach demanded she do it but she dare not dawdle. The longer she sat there, the more likely of Fletcher finding her. Gaining her feet, she leaned back against the tree, her stomach giving that queasy sway she was getting used to feeling every morning. She’d yet to eat. Looking at the bag hanging from the saddle’s pommel, she debated on it now but just the thought made her sick. This baby would give her a fit for the next seven months. She just knew it.
Thinking of the baby made her think of Morgan. She wondered for what seemed like the hundredth time what he would do when he found her gone. Would he hate her for not telling him what she feared the most, especially after he’d asked so many times? Would he miss her like she already missed him? Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, her loss more profound in the stillness around her. As much as she wanted to deny it to save herself the pain, she knew she loved Morgan. Surly old goat that he was at times, she loved him all the same. He made her feel cherished, something she’d never felt before. Being someone’s mistress, a kept woman, wasn’t the same as being taken care of because a man loved you.
Despair washed over her all of a sudden and she knew she should have told him about the baby and how much she adored him, and thanked him for rescuing her when she had nowhere else to go. And she should have told him about Fletcher. Morgan would have protected her. He would have done so for no other reason than she needed him.
She realized then that she still needed him. Her heart ached with it until tears burnt her eyes. She should have never left. Morgan would have taken care of everything if she’d just let him. He would forever rid her of the one thing that had plagued her life for months. Fletcher and the murder charge she assumed was hanging over her head.
Hearing the horse snuffle as he rooted his nose in the grass, a voice in her head whispered for her to go back to Willow Creek. To find Morgan and tell him everything. If Fletcher were still in town, he’d find him and everything would be all right. She knew it was true. Even though he’d never said the words, she knew Morgan lo
ved her. He showed her every night in their bed. He wouldn’t turn his back on her when she needed him the most.
Hope soaring in her chest, she walked to the horse and untied him. It took three tries to climb into the saddle. Her legs felt too weak to hold her this morning. Finally finding the seat, she grabbed the reins and started for the road. She needed to find her husband. He was the only person who could truly help her now.
* * * *
She rode for hours, her back groaning with every step the horse made. She’d managed to get a few bites of bread down, and keep it down, but she felt uneasy. As if someone were watching her. She glanced toward the trees lining the road. Nothing moved in the shadowed recess. The wind had calmed and the air was stagnant with smells of the forest. Wet grass and rotten tree limbs. She ignored the uneasy feeling and nudged the horse into a trot, her aching back be damned.
Half a mile up the road the sound of gunfire startled the horse. He reared, tossing her off his back. The impact with the ground rattled her teeth and caused her stomach to cramp painfully. She gasped through the pain and briefly wondered what damage the fall had done to the baby. If she lost it now, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
Turning her head as a shadow moved in the trees, her worst fear was realized when Fletcher stepped out of the shadows. The pistol in his hand was still smoking and the look on his face was one of triumph. Her hope in finding Morgan was dashed in an instant. She should never have turned back.
“You never were very good at riding, my dear. Your grip was always too loose.” He walked toward her, his steps slow and measured. When he stopped by her feet, his gaze ran over her from head to toe. “Did you miss me?”
Chapter Eleven
Fletcher shook his head and snorted a laugh. “Look at you, Abby. You look like a beggar. Where is that fine dress I bought for you?”
She wanted to refuse to answer but knew him too well. A well-placed kick would cause the pain she felt to increase. “Sold it,” she said, looking at his feet. “I needed the money.”
“And all the jewelry?”
“I sold what I had on but I didn’t take the rest of it. I left it in the vault.”
“Then who took it?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t look as if he believed her. “I swear it, Fletcher. I didn’t take it.” She didn’t know who took the jewelry but she had her suspicions. She wasn’t about to voice them though. If someone was able to get one over on Fletcher, then good for him. Someone needed to. She sat up, wincing as pain traveled up her back.
He squatted to be eye level with her. “Do you realize how much trouble you’ve caused me, Abby? Why I’ve damn near spent every dime we stole from Crandall.”
At the mention of the name, Abigail tensed. Jacob Crandall was the richest man in all of Atlanta. Well, he was until Fletcher had gotten through with him. With her help, they’d swindled every dime out of the man they could. Then Fletcher had shot him, the man’s blood splattering her face when he did. She’d stood staring at that lifeless body for unknown amounts of time as Fletcher cleaned out what remained of the man’s safe. Staring down at that lifeless face, she knew Fletcher had set her up. The dinners he insisted she go on with the man had all been a ruse. The people who knew Jacob Crandall also knew he was planning on asking her to marry him. And they all knew she was the last person he’d been with when they found his body. Fletcher had set her up in more than one way. He’d turned her into the whore he claimed she was for his own gain and pinned a murder she didn’t commit on her.
He was still talking, the dull cadence of his voice a buzzing echo in her head. She lifted her eyes and looked at his face. He was grinning at her. “What do you want?”
The smile vanished and he lifted one eyebrow. “Why, I want you, darlin’. Same thing I’ve always wanted.” Fletcher reached out, fingering a curl next to her face. “I’ve missed you.”
Her stomach revolted at his words and touch. She leaned back so he couldn’t reach her. “You don’t want me,” she said. “You never did. You just needed someone to cheat all those men you’re always finding.”
He looked offended and lifted a hand to lie over his heart. “That’s not true, Abby. I’ve always wanted you. As a matter of fact, despite all the trouble you’ve caused me, I still do.”
“What is it this time, Fletcher? Or better yet, who is it?”
The look on his face told her she’d guess right. He shifted before meeting her eyes. “I met a man in Missoula who has more money than he’ll ever need. You, my sweet Abby, will help me divest him of it. It’s the least you can do for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
“Then what?”
He smiled but it looked more feral than anything. A flashing of his teeth and a deadly glint in his eyes. “Then, I’ll rid myself of you forever.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet. Abigail gasped, the cramps in her stomach increasing.
Dragging her with him toward the trees, she saw his horse. She recognized it. It was the spotted mare from the livery stable in town. “How long were you in Willow Creek?”
He glanced down at her before shoving her toward a nearby tree. “Long enough to know you’d taken up with the town Marshal.” He laughed, the sound abrupt and without mirth. “I have to admit, Abby, that was the smartest thing I’ve ever known you to do. Why, I’d applaud you for it if it hadn’t caused me so much trouble.”
Something in his eyes caused a hint of fear to run up her spine. She’d seen that look before. It had been on his face the night he’d shot Jacob Crandall. “Don’t hurt him, Fletcher. He has nothing to do with this.”
That feral smile returned. “Don’t you go worrying that pretty little head of yours now, darlin’. The marshal is the least of my worries.”
You should be worried. Abigail didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Fletcher laughed.
“And why’s that?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, instead chose to look toward the mountains and pretend he wasn’t even there.
“You think the good marshal is going to come riding to your rescue?”
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate to answer. She knew Morgan would come after her, if for no other reason than to berate her for leaving in the first place.
“I wouldn’t waste your time thinking so.”
Something in his voice caused Abigail to turn her head and look at him. He wasn’t smiling but his eyes were. The glee she saw there caused her heart to skip a beat. She could see the nervous energy bouncing through him as he stood by his horse. He knew something she didn’t and he was bursting to tell her. Why he hadn’t yet, she didn’t know.
When he turned to look at her, that gleam in his eyes brightened. “You didn’t honestly think I’d let him come after us, now did you?” He turned his body, angled it toward her and squared his shoulder. “You’re mine, Abby, and you always will be. I own you.”
“He’ll come for me.” Her voice trembled. Even to her own ears they sounded a bit desperate.
Fletcher shook his head, the smile she knew was hiding there now surfacing. “I’m afraid not, darlin’. I don’t think he’ll recover from our encounter. As a matter of fact, I’m sure he was quite dead when I left him.”
* * * *
Dead. The word beat against the inside of her head like a drum. Abigail hadn’t been able to hold the sickness at bay then. She’d turned and emptied what little was in her stomach while Fletcher stood by the horse and laughed. Tears followed, burning her eyes as her throat grew tight and she thought she’d choke on the pain as she sucked in gasps of air.
Sitting by the tree, its solid weight the only thing holding her upright, Abigail saw Morgan in her minds eye. Saw him the day she married him, standing before the preacher and promising to love, honor and cherish her until the day he died. He’d never said as much to her but he’d kept that promise. She’d felt all those things from him and now Fletcher had taken it all away.
She hated Fletcher more then and as images of Morgan
played in her mind’s eye, the need to rid herself of Fletcher grew to staggering proportions. If Morgan weren’t in Willow Creek, there wasn’t a reason for her to be either. Her stomach still cramped and the baby they’d made probably wouldn’t survive that fall from the horse. Her hatred for Fletcher burned in her stomach more fiercely, ached in her head, and she was trembling with it by the time she wiped her mouth and stood.
Turning toward him, Abigail watched him walk the short distance to her horse before leading it back over to where she stood. She could see the butt of the rifle jutting up over the saddle from where she’d tied it. She’d never taken a life, but today the thought caused something inside of her to jump with nervous energy. Could she really point a gun at someone and pull the trigger? You damn right she could.
Sucking in a breath, she straightened. Fletcher gave her a look then held the reins out to her. “Get on,” he said. “And if you try to ride away without me, I’ll shoot you in the back.”
She wasn’t about to ride away. Not yet at least. Walking to the horse, and taking the reins from him, Abigail lifted her foot and placed it in the stirrup. Her hand was on the rifle, the string holding it to the pommel of the horse an inch from her finger. She’d rather not be on the horse while firing that gun but she’d take her chances. She knew she’d never get it untied and lifted before he saw her.
Climbing into the saddle, she shifted, trying to get comfortable. When he climbed onto his own horse, she reached down, grabbed the string holding the gun, and gave it a jerk. The bow she’d tied knotted, cinching tight. A hushed cursed hissed past her lips and she turned her gaze toward Fletcher. She’d never be able to pick the knot out without him seeing.
“Stay close or I swear you’ll regret the day you clapped eyes on me.”
I already do. Abigail gave him a single nod and nudged the horse. When Fletcher turned toward the road, headed toward the mountain pass, and Missoula, her grip tightened on the rifle. It swung freely by the horses’ side and she was able to push on the butt and raise the barrel into the air. Maybe she didn’t need to untie it to shoot the bastard. Pulling back the hammer, she lifted it as far as she could, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
